“Cartimandua said, ‘Did I not give my word to support him against the Romans?” The queen’s hands fell slowly down my waist, and that’s when I broke away. I flushed and said, ‘He … wants you to come and see him.’ She said, ‘We will discuss that later, tonight.’”
Fiona had departed the next day, relieved that her purpose had been accomplished and that she fled from the clutches of the queen. Cartimandua had promised she would journey to Caersws and see Caratacus. But she’d refused to say when. “The queen said she feared something would befall you, my lord. She knew not what or why or when.”
*
One week after Fiona had returned from Eburacum, a vicious storm raked the Valley of Caersws the afternoon Havgan the Druid and his escorting acolytes and body guards arrived from the Isle of Mona. Because Havgan’s prophecy of a victory over the Romans had proven to be wrong, when Caratacus’s army was defeated at the River Medway, Havgan had been replaced by Owen as Caratacus’s arch-Druid. Although the older man had fled in disgrace to the Druid sanctuary, he was allowed to return to Caratacus’s holdings periodically when the arch-Druid of Mona had information on Roman activities.
Caratacus and his hunting party had been caught in the downpour and arrived at about the same time as the Druids. Coming from the direction of the nearby hills, the king and his men had barely escaped the River Sabrina’s raging flood waters.
The king greeted and immediately invited the priest into the Great Hall. Havgan still shivered from the cold rain even though a servant came forward and placed a heavy blanket around his bony shoulders.
“My lord, Caratacus,” the Druid said as they sat in chairs facing the comforting fire of the center hearth. “It is important that I have a word with you, now.”
“Of course, Havgan. What news do you bring us from the Sacred Council?”
“The council is alarmed by the Roman landings along the coast of the Silurians; soon the Sacred Island will be in jeopardy.”
Caratacus knew the Roman legions were moving up the Wye, making coastal landings along the Bristol Channel in an effort to encircle and isolate him.
“That’s why I am raiding Roman positions wherever they are established,” Caratacus said. “So long as Brath and his warriors keep them busy, you’ll have little to worry about.”
Caratacus’s reports said the Silurians, whose kingdom the Romans had invaded to the south of Caratacus’s stronghold, had raised so much havoc that the Romans had only conquered a small part of it during the last two years.
Havgan scrunched his wrinkled forehead and, while holding the blanket by one hand, pulled lightly at his well-trimmed, white beard. “But for how long? Our sources say otherwise.”
Caratacus understood Havgan’s meaning. The Druids used their extensive intelligence network to keep track of Roman Army movements. An invasion of Ordovician territory was a serious threat to the Isle of Mona just off its coast. Roman infantry could sweep across the muddy flats, reaching the island during low tide. If his forces didn’t hold, Mona would be next. The Romans, in hatred, would slaughter the Druid priests and destroy the sacred sanctuary.
“We also know,” Havgan continued, “the Roman general, Scapula, has fewer troops since the Twentieth Legion started campaigning against the Silurians in the south.”
“That’s in our favor.”
“Aye, but we have learned Scapula has decided to concentrate all remaining forces against you. He has only one objective. Your death!”
Caratacus grabbed the hilt of his sword. “Ha! That is nothing new. Scapula knows where we are. If he wants his battle, it will have to be here. We move no farther.”
“They will arrive at any moment.”
Chapter 18
September, AD 50
It had been evening, and the flaps to the front entrance and the side of his home had been left open to allow in the light from the setting sun and to alleviate the stifling heat. Light from the small hearth and oil lamps hanging from iron tripods filled in the shadowy gaps.
Caratacus sat bare-chested, while Dana and Macha wore light, short-sleeved and knee-length, plain tunics as they finished eating their evening meal by the center hearth. The aroma of bread and the tangy smell of beef stew lingered in the air.
One of the female servants had removed the cauldron from the hearth and took it outside to clean.
The king’s eyes searched their wattle-and-daub home, a little bigger than those in which the rest of his people lived. In the shadows, he noted the belongings Dana had packed for her and Macha in several goat-skinned and cowhide packets and bundles. If the Romans overran Caersws, he wanted his family safely away. The Ordovices pledged to fight alongside Caratacus if he was forced to withdraw, but he shook his head and thought of once more retreating.
Caratacus took a drink of corma and washed down the last piece of bread. He let out a low belch. Macha laughed, and Dana smiled. Relaxing, he sat back on the bear-skin rug and closed his eyes for a moment.
Macha, who had been sitting between Caratacus and Dana, crawled onto Caratacus’s lap and clung to his side, which pulled him out of his thoughts. She is heavier than I remembered, he thought as he felt her weight on his lap. Despite the lingering heat, her bright, sunset hair smelled of being freshly washed, her light, freckled face, newly scrubbed.
The little girl narrowed her intelligent, emerald eyes as she looked upon Caratacus’s face. “Why do Mum and me have to leave in the morning, Da?”
“I want you to be safe from the Romans, my little darling,” he said. “You and Mum would be in danger if you stayed here. You are going to a secret valley where you will be safe.”
“A secret valley?” Macha asked.
“Yes, the Romans don’t know about it.”
Dana smiled.
Caratacus winked at her. He and Dana realized that it was known only to the local people. He only hoped the Romans wouldn’t learn about it until much later. He feared the Romans would persuade them by means other than mere questioning.
“Why are the Romans so mean?” Macha asked. “Why do they hate us?”
Dana leaned over and lightly touched Macha’s freckled face. “It’s a long story.”
“Don’t worry, they won’t hurt you, I promise,” Caratacus said. He kissed her cheek, lifted her off his lap, and sat her next to his left side. “Now, I need to ask Mum something.”
Caratacus motioned Dana to move closer. She slipped next to his other side. For a few seconds she rested her head on his shoulder. With the two he loved the most so near, he felt a moment of contentment. Why couldn’t this last a lifetime?
He allowed himself to relish the closeness for a few minutes before he asked Dana, “Have you packed everything needed for your journey?” He already knew the answer. He still hated to see them leave.
“Everything has been,” Dana answered. “Don’t worry, all will be well with us. We are ready to leave.”
“You realize that as my wife and queen, the families and my escorting warriors will look to you for leadership,” Caratacus said.
Dana pursed her lips and nodded. “I know. And as their queen, I will do my best to lead them, but I will consult with the captain of the guard on matters of safety.”
“Good thinking.”
Caratacus had already planned the journey. The refugees would travel by foot. Not many horses and mules or other beasts of burden were available, and they were used only to pull the wagons and carts needed to carry the supplies. He could spare only a couple companies of warriors to provide an escort.
His eyes focused on Macha, and he grinned. He turned back to Dana and looked deeply into her large, hazel eyes. “I know I haven’t said it enough, but I love you and Macha very much.”
Dana raised a hand and placed a finger to his chapped lips. “I know, and so does Macha. I have prayed to Mother Goddess that one day this shall all be over.” She lowered her hand, reached up, and gave him a lingering kiss on the lips.
*
A week had pa
ssed since Dana and Macha had departed with the other women and children for the hidden valley. Now, beneath the hot, midafternoon sun, Caratacus, Fergus ap Roycal, Venutios, other minor chieftains, and escorting warriors rode their mounts along the base of the fortress wall inspecting the lower defenses. Caratacus, bare-chested, wearing red, plaid breeches, leather boots, and a bright-green, tartan cloak hanging about his shoulders, reined his gelding to a halt. In the distance he spotted the churning dust of a fast-approaching rider. The horseman raced along the rutted trackway, forded the muddy river, and hurried up to the entourage, the clatter of hooves echoing off the side of the stronghold’s wall. Caratacus signaled for his group to halt.
“The Romans are approaching, Great King,” the messenger reported to Caratacus, his horse seeming uneasy, smelling of sweat, white foam dripping from its mouth. Caratacus beckoned the messenger to draw closer to his mount.
“How many and how far away are they?” he asked.
“Parts of two legions and as many auxiliaries, maybe fifteen thousand,” the sunburnt warrior said. “They’re about a day’s march from here.”
Caratacus scratched his stubbled chin. “Which Legions?”
“Fourteenth and Twentieth, High King,” the scout answered.
The king nodded and twisted about in his saddle toward his chieftains. “That makes sense. I know that Scapula has detached several cohorts from both legions to garrison the watch forts guarding his rear. We have inflicted much damage and killed thousands of his men.”
“Aye, and our Silurian allies have done the same to the east and south,” Venutios said, from his mount next to Caratacus’s.
“Well done,” Caratacus said to the rider and dismissed him.
Earlier that morning Venutios had received reports of Roman cavalry patrols not more than ten miles distant in the direction of the hills on the other side of the valley. Yesterday, they were thirty miles away.
Fergus spat from his shaggy, gray mount. “By now the shit-eaters are scouting about the hills.”
“My warriors are searching but haven’t sighted the Romans yet.” Venutios tightly clasped the hilt of his sword secured to his waist. “I’ll send out more men.”
“Don’t!” Caratacus said. “I want them to ride closer.”
“What!” Fergus exclaimed. “Are you mad?”
Caratacus shook his head and grinned. “Fergus, my old friend and comrade, I haven’t lost my wits.”
Fergus’s craggy face looked toward the river, and then he glared at Caratacus. “Convince us!”
“All warriors, except posted sentries, will stay out of sight for the rest of the day.” Caratacus pointed toward the valley. “The Romans will believe we’re no more than a miserable little force of bandits.”
Venutios raised a hand above his brow to protect his eyes from the glaring sun and peered across the river. “The Romans aren’t fools. Their spies have told Scapula the size of our forces. They’ll see the defensive ditch and stakes.”
“Aye, and the wall of stones in front of them,” Fergus added.
“Scapula doesn’t know with any certainty how massive we are,” Caratacus said. “He can guess right up to the last moment, when we retaliate!”
A black-toothed smile crossed Fergus’s face. “Clever like a wolf. Those pissing Romans will wish they’d never heard of this place.”
“When the Romans appear tomorrow,” Caratacus continued, “they’ll see that we’re as thick as mosquitoes in a swamp.”
Fergus made a slashing motion across his throat. “And we draw a lot more blood.”
Caratacus glanced about, down to the river, and then to the walls. “Now, there is one other matter that must be discussed.” Fergus, Venutios, and the others watched him with quizzical eyes. “In case we are forced to withdraw—”
“Withdraw!” Fergus roared as he waved his hands. “We’ll wipe out those thieving bastards before they reach the first wall.”
“Nevertheless, I’m not taking chances,” Caratacus said.
“Our warriors will fight far better knowing their women and children are safe,” Venutios said in a reassuring voice.
In addition to the more than fifteen thousand warriors within and camped outside the fortress, there had been over three thousand women and children and other camp followers. Caratacus couldn’t forget the sick and wounded and the five hundred cattle left for food. They slowed any retreat. He had decided one week before that the families and the sick must be moved to a more secure location. It would be difficult enough to defend the fortress as it was, without families being in the way, placing their own lives at risk.
It was just as well, the stench from the latrines that were rapidly filling, and so many unwashed bodies would soon make the stockade unlivable. The important thing was to defeat the Romans. The Crone would stay behind to attend to the wounded, but ready to flee if need be.
Owen had insisted on staying. Knowing that the Romans would show no mercy, Caratacus told him he did so at his own risk.
The hidden valley on the eastern slope of the mountain beyond Caersws provided ideal protection. It had already been stocked with provisions—a wise move.
Caratacus raised his hand above his head and made a circling motion. He turned his mount in the direction of the fort’s entrance, kicked the horse’s side, and moved out, his retinue following.
For seven years Caratacus had wreaked havoc among the Romans. He had forced them to drain away several cohorts of legionaries to protect their inner lines of defense by building dozens of watch forts, all the while losing many men. But the delaying actions Caratacus had taken couldn’t continue. The Roman supply lines grew ever stronger as material and reinforcements continued to flow in with each passing day. His army was running out of places to go. He hated being cornered like a rabid wolf. The running stops here.
“At dawn, when the Romans appear, have your chieftains rally the men into a frenzy,” Caratacus spoke out loud again. “Remind them if they don’t destroy the Romans, their women and children will be raped and tortured. Either they’ll win back their freedom and lands and be rid of the Romans once and for all, or they’ll be enslaved forever.”
Indeed they will be enslaved, we’ll all be enslaved, Caratacus thought as he entered the fortresses main gate. I will not see my wife and daughter enslaved by the Romans.
*
Roman legions Fourteenth Gemina and Twentieth Valeria had arrived in the area late the night before. On a low rise above the river, soldiers built a stockade marching camp in the form of a large square, complete with ramparts. A defensive ditch lined with menacing wood spikes called “lilies” jutted upwards from within the deep trench.
Porcius, along with the rest of the general’s staff, Centurion Bassus, and other cohort commanders of Fourteenth and Twentieth Legions, had been summoned to the banks of the River Sabrina early that morning to confer with General Scapula.
Nearby, men from the engineers detail, under the watchful eye of a snarling centurion, unloaded heavy, wooden planks and thick posts from ox-drawn wagons. The troops dropped them noisily to the sandy ground in preparation for bridging the River Sabrina.
The legions and their auxiliary troops had assembled in front of the camp, in formation, covering the small plain, waiting for the signal to cross the river. However, General Scapula had not yet made the decision to construct a bridge across the river or to chance fording the clear but swift running waters.
Porcius was proud to see that Bassus had risen to the rank of Hastatus Prior, commanding centurion of the Second Cohort, one of the best fighting units in the legion and perhaps better than the First, the general’s personal outfit. Bassus’s experience in battle and political intrigue, along with his knowledge of Caratacus, had earned him the right to a command in his old legion.
Once again, Porcius followed the Roman Army on campaign, this time with General Scapula. At age sixty-two, painful rheumatism had seeped into his knee joints, which he felt with every step he took. His
excessive girth did not help either. The Roman’s personal physician had advised him to use a cane or walking stick, but he had stubbornly refused. “I am not a cripple yet.”
His uniform consisted in part of a linen corselet and bronze cuirass that covered a tunic and ankle-length breeches, which, despite the heat, he insisted on wearing like a Briton. It had been altered to fit across his ample belly.
Last spring Porcius had received a secret message from Emperor Claudius, sent through his secretary, Narcissus, the freedman. The Greek informed Porcius that the emperor had ordered him to report to General Scapula, Commander of the Fourteenth Legion, where he was to be part of his staff with the rank of legate, or inspector general. Scapula would receive a separate order as confirmation. It would be Porcius’s duty to send Claudius independent reports in addition to those received from Scapula. The old ruler wanted an unbiased outside opinion regarding the true progress of the campaign against Caratacus and the Britons. Scapula had been in command for the last three years, and Claudius was dissatisfied with the commander’s progress against the wily barbarian king.
When Porcius had reported to Scapula at legion headquarters, the general had been in a foul mood and didn’t offer Porcius a seat. As the Roman saluted, the general shoved the letter he had received from the emperor across the desk into Porcius’s face.
“I received this so-called order this morning,” Scapula said, his face flushed and breath reeking of sour wine. “Obviously you know I have been ordered by the emperor to add you as a legate to my staff, which is bad enough. But I must allow you the privilege of working independently of me as you see fit, making your reports directly to the emperor. In other words, you’re a damn imperial spy!”
Porcius flushed, sweat poured down the side of his face, a result of the morning heat, which grew more intense with each passing minute. I must carefully choose my words. He gestured broadly with a hand. “General Scapula, I assure you it is not by my choice.”
Scapula snorted. “It is obvious you have the emperor’s ear.”
The Wolf of Britannia Part II Page 19
